Political Secrets of a Modest Man
by JillSwinburne
Summary: Why do four women always stick up for Lord Vetinari? Who are they and what do they owe him?
1. The Prologue

A/N Okay this fic was sort of inspired by some lines near the end of The Truth but you don't really needto have read it to understand this. Reviews are more than totally welcome but be kind, this is my first Discworld fic lol.

PS I don't own the Discworld etc etc blah blah bliddy blah so on and so forth...

"… Mr Scrope is now Lo- is now the Patrician?"

"Yes."

"By the vote of the Guilds?"

"Yes. Of course."

"The unanimous vote?"

"I don't have to tell-"

William raised a finger. "Ah?" he said.

Mr Slant squirmed. "The Beggars and the Seamstresses voted to adjourn," he said. "So did the Launderers and the Guild of Exotic Dancers."

"So… that would be Queen Molly, Mrs Palm, Mrs Manger and Miss Dixie Voom," said William. "What an interesting life Lord Vetinari must have led."

"No comment."

(The Truth)

Prologue: Ladies

They knew each other fairly well, the four women assembled in the waiting room. They had been here before. Together they represented the four most particular and perhaps the more important Guilds of Ankh-Morpok.

Mrs Palm1 was the leader of the Guild of Seamstresses and a most formidable if still highly attractive woman and one of the city's greatest entrepreneurs; which wasn't bad for a woman most said made money by lying in bed all day. Next to her was Mrs Manger, a small stooped woman with a flushed complexion and sharp eyes. She was head of the Launderers Guild and considered herself a sensible, no nonsense woman who could do more things with a mangle than most would have thought possible.

Across the room was a figure wrapped in a gown of dark velvet with a hood covering most of her face beneath which occasional mutterings could be heard. This was the head of the Guild of Beggars, commonly known as Queen Molly. There had been some talk a few years ago of the Thieves Guild taking over the Beggars under the premise that begging came under the heading of daylight robbery. But one meeting with Molly had been enough to convince the thieves that there was going to be no deal; she had that kind of detached personality which is very difficult to do business with.

Sitting as far away from the others as possible was a rather brightly dressed young lady. Constance Allslop, or Dixie Voom as she preferred to be known these days was the youngest of the group and head of one of the newer guilds; the Guild of Exotic Dancers. This Guild and its leader were not particularly popular with the other ladies in the room. Mrs Palm felt the Exotic Dancers lacked class. Mrs Manger disapproved of the kind of stubborn stains that seemed to end up on the "costumes" they wore and all the little sparkly bits that tended to come off in the wash. Molly didn't really have anything against her except that she was obviously in possession of a number of shiny things which she had no intention of handing over for free.

In fact there were only two things which these women held in common. They were all the heads of their professions and respected as such2. The other reason was sitting at a desk behind the heavy oak door at the far end of the waiting room.

1 No one could ever remember there being a Mr Palm and it had been concluded that the title was to give her position the smack of respectability (Madam and Mistress were words which projected quite the wrong image) Seamstressing was a family service after all.

2 And if you didn't show the proper respect they were perfectly capable of forcing respect upon you. Remember the mangle.


	2. Mrs Palm

A/N okay this chapter is a bit dark in places but the rest are lighter, honest. Hope you like it.

Chapter 1: Mrs Palm's Story

Rosie Palm had been an attractive young woman with that kind of voluptuous attractiveness which involved curves and a talent for husky voices. Back before the Guilds she had been one of many girls living in the Shades under the protection of the Agony Aunts. They hadn't been Seamstresses then, not even Ladies of Negotiable Affection. The names she had been called back in the bad old days were one of reasons Mrs Palm had selected a somewhat more ambiguous title for her guild1.

However Rosie was a very capable young woman and not in the habit of getting herself into positions she could not easily extricate herself from2. To this extent her name had become her most powerful weapon and even the killers and barbarians that hung out at the Broken Drum knew that when Rosie Palm aimed a slap in your direction you ducked if you wanted to keep your head on your neck. The woman had a forehand smash like a lead bar and her backhand was no more subtle.

Unfortunately the finer points of female street fighting were not on the syllabus at the Ankh-Morpok School for Assassins. This did not seem to deter most of its scholars though and because she was attractive and known to be more than commonly intelligent for a street girl most of them sought her out for an evening's pleasure. At their expense of course.

Rosie was quite used to seeing the obvious shadows detach themselves from the wall opposite her house as she watched from her window. There was the soft tap at the door and the courteous request for Miss Palm to join them. They had heard about her from a friend. After that things varied a bit but they always ended with the boy handing over three dollars and saying he would mention her name to some of the other boys he knew when he would slope off looking rather sheepish and forget to notice the loose roof tiles that peppered the roofs of the Shades.

On one evening however, things went slightly differently. For one thing the shadows around the door were thicker and the knock was loud. The voice that called out her name was loud too; loud and arrogant.

_Rich._ Thought Rosie as she brushed out her hair before heading down the stairs. She heard the muttering voices by the door as she reached the ground floor. They were all of that particular upper class drawl which she automatically associated with students of the Assassins. _Lots of rich ones. _She amended in her mind as she began to calculate her nights takings in the back of her head.

At the door she dropped a fetching curtsy to the five tall young men all dressed in jet black satin and velvet. Four of them were arranged in a fan behind a well built red-headed boy who was obviously the leader of the gang.

"Miss Palm?" he enquired snootily.

"Yessir."

"Downey. These chaps and I wondered if you would like to accompany us to a little party we're going to. Nothing formal you understand," he grinned evilly, "just some friends a few laughs. Yes?"

Rosie had to admit that she didn't like the look of him or his friends. They looked like thugs with good tailors. But the proprietess was looking at her pointedly. So she shrugged and nodded.

"All right," she told them and left the house on Downey's arm thinking desperately about the money she was likely to make this evening.

The evening rolled along slowly and Rosie was enjoying herself less and less. Downey and his friends were thugs and they were taking immense pleasure in humiliating everyone they met for her amusement. She smiled and tried to laugh at it all for fear that if she didn't look like she was enjoying herself she would be next.

_Oh you've got yourself in a right mess this time you have. _She thought to herself as she watched the assassins peel the helmet off a young drunken dwarf in the city on business and taking the night off for a bit of a spree. They whacked him on the backside with the iron rim of the helmet with gleeful whoops until he fell on his knees and began to vomit.

Rosie had had enough. While her escorts were preoccupied with their prey she slipped silently down a nearby side street and walked slowly until she reached the corner when she began to run as fast as possible back towards home. When she reached the corner of Gleam Street she paused to catch her breath. That was when she felt the cold steel edge of the knife against her throat.

"Now why on earth would you think you could get away that easily?" whispered Downey softly in her ear.

The knife was so close to her throat she was afraid to swallow never mind answer him.

"Rosie Rosie Rosie. My dear girl we haven't had any fun yet and you wouldn't want us to go home without having any fun, would you now?"

There were tears in Rosie's eyes and she bit her lip so hard that it bled. Downey smiled darkly at her before leaning forward and kissing her hard. She could feel him sucking the blood from her lip and he laughed.

Somewhere in the darkness behind Downey where his cronies lay in wait for their turn there was a soft thump… and another then two more quite close together. Rosie heard them because she was trying to concentrate on anything but Downey, his dagger and where his free hand was going.

"Excuse me," said someone.

Downey turned around angrily.

"Wait your turn!" he shouted and then stopped.

"Well look who it is. Little Havelock the Dog Botherer."

Behind the big lad Rosie could see another tall boy dressed in dark grey. Unlike the black of the others which showed up easily because it was really darker than the shadows he was difficult to see even close up because the grey simply melted into the darkness of the unlit street. He was slimmer than the other boys too and his thin pale face had a peculiarly intelligent twist to it.

"Good evening Downey," replied the other boy. "I was wondering if I might have a word."

"Really? But can't you see that I'm busy?" Downey's voice was callous and he swung Rosie roughly around in front of him.

"Yes I can see however I don't particularly care."

"In that case, if you wouldn't mind waiting."

Downey pulled Rosie tighter to him once more but the one called Havelock spoke again before he could kiss her properly.

"Actually I do mind. It is a rather pressing matter."

Downey whirled around angrily.

"What is it then Dog Botherer? What is so damn important that it can't wait until after I'm done?"

"This."

Rosie wasn't entirely clear on what happened next but Downey suddenly crumpled up on the ground with a gasp of pain without the other boy seeming to have moved, although she couldn't be sure of that. All she did know was that the thin boy stepped forward quickly enough to pluck Downey's dagger from his hand before it did any real damage to Rosie's rather sore throat. He dropped the dagger on the ground beside Downey.

"Assassins do not threaten young ladies in dark alleys; it is the height of bad manners and more in common with a thief than a gentleman. You wanted like to be called a common thief would you Downey? Downey?" He poked the unconscious boy with his toe and smiled grimly. "I thought not. I'll just have to get them to send the drunk wagon for you in the morning. That'll make the third time this month; quite shameful. I wonder what you father will say when he finds out."

He looked up at Rosie and held out a hand.

"Forgive me. Havelock Vetinari, Student of the School for Assassins."

"Um… Rosie Palm," murmured Rosie, still staring at the open blade on the ground which had been recently so well acquainted with her neck. Vetinari noticed her look and thoughtfully kicked the knife into the shadow on the other side of the street.

When it was gone she finally looked up at him properly.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Quite all right. Now, where do you live. Not that I don't think you are perfectly capable of finding your own way home but you have had a rather nasty shock and I don't think you should be left alone quite yet."

He eyed her curiously.

"Downey tends to have a rather adverse affect on women," he added quietly as he took her arm and guided her in the general direction of home.

It occurred to Rosie that she should probably call for the Agony Aunts but there didn't seem to be any harm in this new lad, at least none directed towards her. As they neared the relative safety of the boarding house she looked him over and asked quietly.

"Why did you help me?"

"Because I can't stand Downey and I was brought up to believe that one should not threaten a lady."

"I'm a lady?" she almost laughed.

Vetinari gave her a sidelong glance and smiled wickedly. Rosie decided she rather liked him.

He paused as they reached the top of her street and she wondered how he knew that. He rummaged in a pocket for a second before pulling out a handful of coins and handing them to her. She could see there was easily twenty dollars there.

"I presume that that is your typical fee plus a bonus for, shall we say endurance?"

Rosie shrugged, she wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The most she would stretch to was. "It's a lot of money."

A thought struck her and she smiled at him seductively.

"And would you be wanting anything in return sir?"

She leant forward and let her lips brush against his tantalisingly but he stepped back and shook his head.

"Sorry but not tonight Miss Palm, it is a little late and I should be getting back."

Rosie pouted although she wasn't sure whether to feel angry or relieved. Vetinari gave her another smile.

"You should see to that tear on your lip," he told her.

She shrugged nonchalantly.

"You going to be back down this way you reckon?" she asked.

"I don't know. Perhaps. However until next time Miss Palm," and taking her hand he kissed it delicately before melting back into the shadows where he disappeared completely.

Rosie sighed and trudged the few doors along to the boarding house where she handed over her rent and went to bed refusing to tell anyone what had happened.

For the first couple of weeks Rosie watched expectantly for a slimmer, deeper shadow to call but it never did and in the end she told herself to stop being to silly because he was never going to come. But that didn't quite stop her hopes from rising slightly every time someone said there was an assassin at the door. But he never came back.

Years went by and Rosie started her own boarding house. She looked after her girls and wouldn't let them go anywhere with a man who looked in the least bit sadistic3. And then came the news of the death of Lord Snapcase the Patrician and the announcement of his replacement.

When Vetinari formed the Guilds he sent out a public proclamation that anyone with reasonable grounds for building a guild around their profession should come to the palace to explain their cause. All of whom would be heard by the new Patrician. Rosie lost no time in confirming her appointment.

The first time the door to the Oblong Office was opened for her she had to remind herself to breathe. He was older, obviously. There was grey in his dark hair and a small beard which hadn't been there before. He looked up at her from a pile of papers on his desk and motioned her to take a seat.

"Ah Miss Palm," he paused. "Forgive me, Mrs Palm. I see you have petitioned for a Guild of what you are calling Seamstresses?" He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

She coughed a little uncomfortably.

"Ladies of Negotiable Affection yes," she replied carefully. "But Seamstresses seems to be a popular name as well at the moment."

"It is certainly preferable to some," murmured the Patrician and she blushed slightly.

"Quite. You see your lordship … well we are one of the largest um … professions in the city at present and bring in a good deal of money; something of an economic boon you might say. And I feel that my girls, and not just mine but all the girls of the profession deserve, perhaps more than most, the kind of security which comes from a legal state of business."

As she spoke she fingered her neck delicately in memory of what a lack of security could mean. She licked her lips and looked away uneasily. When she looked back he was smiling at her. The smile she remembered from just after she'd kissed him, really rather gentle.

"Of course Mrs Palm," he said softly. "I foresee no reason why such a guild cannot exist and I feel it would be in the best interests of the city if one were to exist."

She beamed at him and there was a companionable silence for a minute.

"You know Lord Downey is the head of the Assassins at present," said Vetinari carefully.

The colour drained from Rosie's face and she shook her head.

"I didn't know."

"Yes, he is somewhat reformed. I believe my succession has hit him badly and he is most anxious for the Guild system to be a success, or so I'm told."

A smile crept back onto Rosie's face.

"I don't suppose you could give him some special orders could you," she suggested coyly. "Painful ones."

Vetinari chuckled dryly.

"I'm afraid not, that would be an abuse of my power. However I can make things rather difficult for him in a number of ways. I don't think you need bother about him too much, it would only encourage him."

This time it was Rosie's turn to laugh. There was a tap at the door a disembodied voice informed them that the next appointment was here. The Patrician stood and walked around his desk as she stood to leave.

"Thank you your lordship," she said dropping a curtsy.

He reached out and took her hand.

"Goodbye my dear Mrs Palm," he said. "I do hope to see more of you in the future."4

_Too bloody right you will sunshine,_ she thought. _You're don't get away from Rosie Palm that easily._

1 Unfortunately for many clean living country girls this was not quite ambiguous enough and tended to cause a bit of trouble every few days or so.

2 Quit sniggering at the back there. I heard you. We'll have none of that kind of humour thank you very much.

3 Although with this being Ankh-Morpok it was difficult to tell.

4 I thought I warned you about sniggering. Alright get out you dirty minded bugger.


	3. Mrs Manger

A/N are you still there? Okay here's the next of the ladies and if you thought Rosie Palmwas scary you ain't seen nothing yet lol

Chapter 2: Mrs Manger's Story

There were no flies on Agnes Manger. If they tried to come anywhere near her they were overcome by the thick smell of bleach that wafted around her in a permanently steaming cloud. It was as though she took her working atmosphere with her wherever she went. You could always tell when Mrs Manger was going to call because everyone put on their cleanest linen and opened all the windows.

Her face was permanently red and she had a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead even in the deep of winter when even the Ankh had frozen over. Beneath her shining brow were a pair of sharp little eyes that could spot a four week old tea stain you'd tried to wash off with a damp cloth at forty paces.

For nearly forty years she had been the chief washer woman at the School for Assassins1. It had been something of an initiation ceremony enforced on the younger boys that they had to take their first week's washing to her personally after having it thrown in the Ankh by some enterprising seventh year. If they survived the beating from one of the paddles used to stir the boiling tubs of dirty laundry they were left alone for the rest of first year as the course presented enough of it's own difficulties that bullying was really rather tame by comparison. She had even beaten a young Lord Downey for using a pillow case to carry the severed head of a stray dog; he hadn't been able to walk properly for a month. This had amused a young Havelock Vetinari no end; although he was apt to keep out of her way himself as much as the next boy.

When Vetinari became Patrician Mrs Manger became head of the Guild of Washerwomen. She held office at a small, bare and damply clean Guild headquarters in Nonesuch Street. She gave up her job with the Assassins and opened her own little wash house near the office. There she presided over her fellow glowing ladies at twice monthly Guild meetings, the minutes of which made riveting reading if you were interested in the newest design of washboards and how to get coffee marks out of thick cotton table cloths. This went on for a number of months until one day during what several people considered to be the coldest winter in living memory2.

Mrs Manger had been working away, stirring one of the Boil Wash (with extra strong bleach) tubs and her face had gone a shade of fuchsia which is never fetching on heavy set women in their sixties. When she was done she lifted the still steaming linen out of the kettle with the stirring paddle and dumped it in a cold bath to wash off the last of the bleach. The air above the bath sizzled as hot met cold and Mrs Manger sat down to wait.

As she did so one of the young girls she employed came in with a wicker basket of washing that had been drying on the green outside and was ready to be picked up by its owner. She was pink in the face and clearly quite cross.

"What's the matter with your face?" asked Mrs Manger from her snug little corner between the tubs.

"It's this cold Missus," replied the girl. "The washing's freezing on the line and it's a pain the bum trying to break it off. Susie said she even chipped one of the corners off the bath towels for the palace yesterday!"

"Don't be so soft girl," the old woman told her. "And get that basket out front ready for collection."

"Yes Missus."

The front door chimed and the girl headed out front. However no sooner had she disappeared than she was back, looking distinctly paler.

"What is it now girl?" asked Mrs Manger, getting up to remove the washing she had been doing from the cold bath.

"Some… someone to see you Missus," the girl muttered.

"Mrs Manger?" enquired a cool voice from the doorway.

Mrs Manger handed the paddle to the quivering girl.

"See that's lot's hung out will you," she told her before sauntering out to the counter.

On the other side of the shop, dressed in robes of sable wool to keep out the cold and long black scarf was the Patrician. Standing slightly behind him was the figure of Lupine Wonse, his lordship's clerk. The little man was holding something under his cloak and snickering slightly. Mrs Manger raised an eyebrow at him before turning to the Patrician.

"And what can I do for you today sir?" she asked.

"I wish to know why, Mrs Manger this bath-towel was returned to me yesterday, missing one of its corners."

As he spoke Wonse removed the offending article from beneath his cloak and unrolled it so that the washerwoman could see the obvious missing corner.

_Bloody Susie_, thought Mrs Manger, _I'll murder that girl, I really will. And then I'll dock her wages._

Mrs Manger licked her dry lips and thought for a minute.

"I'm waiting Mrs Manger."

"Well your lordship, it's the cold."

She could not quite believe that she was really telling him this but she saw no reason to lie. When she had explained the Patrician raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"The washing is freezing?" he said and she nodded. "Then I suggest you find a way to stop it happening Mrs Manger. Broken bath-towels will simply not be tolerated."

"Yes your lordship."

And with that he was gone. Mrs Manger muttered some rather course words to his retreating back before she turned and marched into the washroom once more.

_A way of unfreezing the washing. But that would be nigh on impossible. You'd have to dry the stuff before it got on the green to stop it freezing but then there'd be no point in putting it out there in the first place._

Mrs Manger sat on her stool between the kettles and watched the steam slowly rising. Then she had an idea. It would take a bit of fixing but it might just work.

"What is it Missus?" asked Susie as she and the other girls crowded around the big metal oven which had been constructed at one end of the washroom.

"It's a box for drying things in," replied the older woman proudly.

"What do you call it?"

"The box for drying things in, what else?3"

The girls nodded silently.

"And um, how does it work?" enquired Susie who appeared to have been made unofficial spokeswoman of the group.

"I'll show you. Right Willem, fire her up!"

Mr Manger was, as dictated by the tradition of men who marry large and formidable women, a scrawny little man4. He hobbled around the back of the box and quite soon the girls could hear the sound of another fire, like the ones which warmed the washing kettles being stoked beneath the box. When the fire was hot enough that it had heated the box right up Mrs Manger used one of the stirring paddles to open the door. A blast of hot, dry air hit the girls in the face and they all stepped backwards.

Just inside the door was a kind of metal barrel into which Mrs Manger tipped a load of wet washing before closing the door. Then she moved to a handle on the side of the box and began to turn it.

"This handle turns the barrel see," she told them as she twisted it. "What's the heat Willem?"

Her small husband appeared again and showed her a thermometer.

"Right, that'll take fifteen minutes. One of you girls come and turn this handle for me."

None of them moved and then Susie who saw herself as somewhat responsible for all this in the first place stepped forwards and took the handle from her employer.

"Good, now the rest of you get back to work until it's done."

Fifteen minutes later a very tired Susie was told she could stop turning the handle which she did gladly and sank down onto a stool. Mrs Manger meanwhile had opened the oven-like box and opened the barrel. Using her paddle once more she removed the washing from the barrel and dumped it into a wicker basket.

"Leave it a minute," she told the girls. And then kicked the basket over to them. "See what you think of that little lot."

The girls leant over the basket and gingerly touched the contents.

"They're warm," said one girl carefully.

"They're not just warm, they're dry!" exclaimed another.

"Exactly," said Mrs Manger, beaming at them all. "From now on we don't need to hang the washing out so it won't freeze."

"But it's creased," pointed out one of the girls. "At least when it's hung out it isn't so creased."

Mrs Manger shrugged.

"We can iron it," she said. "After all, those folk who send their washing here get it all ironed when it goes back so why can't we do it here. We could even charge extra." Her eyes were shinning at the thought of it.

"You'll need to hire more people," said Susie tiredly from where she still sat, slumped against the wall. "It's murder trying to turn that thing."

"Then we'll hire more people," said Mrs Manger matter-of-factly.

And they did. Mrs Manger's Wash House grew rapidly with more drying boxes being fitted and long tables set up for ironing. They hired extra girls and a few other assorted species to help with turning the barrels and pumping the fires. Business was booming and the new innovations had been spread throughout the Guild so every wash room in the city now had at least one drying box and two irons. And then Mrs Manger got a message that the Patrician wanted to see her.

The snow was falling again and Vetinari watched it from his window. It occurred to him that the only place in Ankh-Morpok that snow stayed white for any length of time was the rooftops. Up above the layers of smog and polluted air that enveloped the city.

Assassins hated snow. It was harder to cover your tracks and usually meant slippery roof tiles. Also it was harder to creep upon someone if your feet were crunching in the snow. Vetinari smiled at a vague memory of the current head of the Assassins lying in bed with a broken ankle and a back full of bruises while his prey continued to walk the streets, unknowing of the fate he had escaped due to the weather.

There was a tap at the door and he turned around.

"Mrs Manger to see you sir," said Wonse.

"Show her in."

The Patrician sat down and steepled his fingers in front of him as the elderly washer-woman was shown into the office.

"Thank you for coming Mrs Manger. Won't you please sit down."

She sat and folded her arms across her chest in her usual no nonsense manner.

"Now Mrs Manger I have, I'm afraid been receiving complaints about your Guild from certain members of the public and other Guild leaders.

"Complaints? Who's been complaining?"

"People have been complaining Mrs Manger," said Vetinari calmly. "I understand that you have begun to employ methods of drying and ironing the clothes sent to you for washing?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"Well Mrs Manger, as I'm sure you are aware, that contravenes several of the Guild by-laws which you yourself helped to draw up."

"What!"

The Patrician sighed and patiently lifted a piece of paper.

"The by-laws state that the Guild exists for the purposes of ensuring that anything sent to them is washed. They further state that this is the only purpose for which the buildings of the Guild may be utilised. Of course it has always been understood that the drying of washing by means of a drying green at the rear of the premises is permissible however there is no mention of these new drying machines which you have invented and certainly the act of ironing is quite prohibited."

"But that's ridiculous!"

"I have not yet finished Mrs Manger."

The Patrician picked up yet another piece of paper from the pile on his desk.

"There have also been complaints regarding the members of your Guild. I believe the Guild is known as that of the Washer-Women."

"Yes."

"And yet I see here that at present it contains also a number of men, Dwarfs, two Golems and a Troll."

"So?"

"My dear Mrs Manger. The inclusion of such people is also quite against the by-laws of the Guild."

Mrs Manger felt quite lost. Everything had been going so well.

"So what are you going to do?" she asked quietly.

"I have been requested to dissolve the Guild once and for all," he replied smoothly.

Mrs Manger's mouth dropped open and she stared at him.

"Dissolve my Guild! But you can't! I'll be ruined, my girls'll be thrown into the streets. You can't do that!"

"I assure you that I can Mrs Manger. However I have no real wish to. Therefore I have a proposition for you."

Mrs Manger considered this. She vaguely remembered Vetinari as a clever boy who always knew how to get out of a situation. He'd managed to contrive his rise to power well enough, perhaps she could trust him.

"And what would this proposition be sir?" she enquired.

"Quite simply; we change the nature of the Guild."

And so the Guild of Launderers was born. Mrs Manger got to keep her drying machines and her ironing tables and her staff. The Guild was one of the most profitable in the city and always in need of new hands to help out. They started a delivery service and hired men with carts. They refined the drying machines and the washing kettles so that the upper classes could safely send the lace doyleys to be washed along with the bed linen and the silk shirts.

And Mrs Manger always remembered that it was thanks to Vetinari that she had a Guild to look after at all.

1 This was not a job for the squeamish. Blood is a very stubborn stain and by no means the worst you had to remove (Assassins can be very inventive like that).

2 Of course no one can ever agree on this so there have been, at the last count, 27 coldest winters in living memory in the last four decades. If you're being picky this was actually the fourth coldest; that's still pretty damn cold.

3 We are surely all aware of the amazing talent for naming things shown by that great genius of the Disc Leonard of Quirm. Well Mrs Manger was not in any way related to him but they shared, as do many of the people of Ankh-Morpok, that particular flair with words.

4 There is a similar tradition in the Rounworld country of Scotland where it is reffered to as Broons syndrome.


	4. Queen Molly

A/N still there? just checking.

Chapter 3: Queen Molly's Story.

"Get out of it you little witch and don't let me catch you around here again or I'll set the dogs on you!"

The little girl pelted along the alley behind the big house as fast as possible until the shouting had stopped and the person was obviously no longer following her. She leant against the wall and sighed.

Molly Bright was twelve years old. She and her family lived in the Shades area of Ankh-Morpok. Her father had a small job sweeping floors in the Palace but the pay was insufficient to properly feed his wife and ten children and so they had taken to begging and stealing to get money. Molly was the seventh child and the only girl of the family. While her brothers snuck things from carts and picked the pockets of wealthy gentlemen in Sator Square, Molly begged.

She was a good beggar. She was small and sweet and had a space between her front two teeth. When she gave her shy, gap-toothed grin people just wanted to give her things, including money. Unfortunately, while several of the local merchants were kind hearted enough to keep shelling out others had wised up and simply glared at her if they saw her skipping down the road towards them. And so little Molly had decided to try her luck in the up-market area of town. But things had not gone well.

Molly had been kicked out of the last three houses she had tried and was prepared to give up. She began to trudge down the alley along the back of the posh street until she reached a house she hadn't yet tried. _Just one more_, she thought. _What harm can it do?_

Pulling her dress straight and trying to look as sweetly pathetic as possible she sauntered up the back path to the kitchen door and tapped lightly. As she did so she looked around. It was a large house, the largest on the street and built of dark stone which cast long, cold shadows on the ground despite the warmth of the day.

After a few minutes the door was pulled open and an elderly woman with a tight grey bun of hair and a face to match looked around the edge suspiciously.

"What do you want child?" she asked unpleasantly.

"Ethcuse me mithith," said Molly sweetly, exaggerating her slight lisp for extra cuteness. "I'm tho verry hungry and my mummy thays that we've got no money for food."

"Oh it's money you want is it dear?" said the old woman, smiling gently.

Molly nodded enthusiastically.

"Tho hungry," she repeated for good measure.

"I see," said the woman before sneering evilly. "Well you needn't come looking for hand -outs around here you little baggage!"

She opened the door wider and revealed her hand which held a large and wicked looking broom which she swatted in Molly's direction.

"Clear off," she shouted. "Clear off before I call the master!"

Molly picked up her skirts and fled down the path once more. Unlike the last house the woman didn't give chase and so Molly stopped for breath when she'd reached the alley once more. She sank down on the ground and started to cry.

Usually Molly was an intensely sensible girl and not given to tears but in this instance she could not help herself.

"It's not fair!" she shouted at the empty alley and threw a stone against the wall opposite her.

"Yes," said someone smoothly, "but even in a fair world Mrs Rivers would still be a bad tempered old bat."

Molly looked up. There was a boy standing beside her. He was tall and slim with dark hair and pale skin. He looked to be a few years older than Molly and there was a slightly disturbing twinkle in his blue eyes.

"Here," he said, handing her a handkerchief to dry her eyes. "You know it's really no use crying. The people around here never give anything to beggars. Do you see any bins around here?"

Molly glanced up and down the street and shook her head.

"No."

"That's because they never throw anything away. Left over food goes to the dogs and worn out clothes go into the attics or to make patchwork quilts. They don't like the idea of anyone raking the bins and using their things, even if they have thrown them away."

He put out a hand to help her up.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Molly," said Molly.

"I'm Havelock," he said. "That's my house," he indicated the house from which Molly had just run.

"Your house!" exclaimed Molly.

"Well, it belongs to the family but basically yes. You'll get nothing from there."

She frowned.

"Who was that woman?"

"Mrs Rivers, housekeeper. She hates children."

"Does she hate you?"

He laughed. "Yes, but luckily I'm not here very often. I go to the Assassins School so I'm here during the holidays."

Molly began to scrabble nervously away from him.

"You're an assassin?"

"I won't hurt you. Silly little mouse," he cocked his head at her. "Are you hungry?"

Molly nodded.

"But we've got no money."

"How many of you are there?"

Molly quickly counted in her head. "Twelve."

The young man nodded quietly. He seemed to be thinking about something. Leaning against the wall of the alley he folded his arms and smirked into the distance. At one point he ran his eyes over the house carefully, considering. At last he seemed to come to a conclusion.

"Stay here a moment Molly," he said and then he disappeared.

Molly watched as his feet left her vision as he hefted his lithe figure onto the low roof of the brick potting shed that made up that part of the alley wall. As she peeped around the corner she saw him picking his way lightly towards the house. He leapt and caught hold of a window ledge on the first floor. He swung himself around and slipped in through the open sash.

Molly pulled herself back into the alley and waited. He was not gone for long. As his feet hit the ground beside her again Molly could swear she heard a soft jangling sound. He fixed her with a very direct stare.

"Now Molly, I told you that the people around here don't like beggars. So once we say goodbye I don't want to see you up here again. It isn't safe for you."

Molly nodded wordlessly. She didn't ever want to come back here anyway.

"Very well."

Reaching inside his coat pocket he pulled out a money pouch which sat weightily in the palm of his pale hand.

"There are one hundred Ankh-Morpok dollars here Molly. That should see you and your family through to Hogswatch at least, if you use it carefully."

Molly took the purse carefully and stared at him with wide eyes.

"Why?"

He raised a thin dark eyebrow at her.

"Why not?" was his only reply.

Nodding Molly tucked the purse away and, pulling herself to her feet ran down the alley. Before she turned the corner she glanced over her shoulder but Havelock was gone.

She ran home and presented her prise to her family. As they ate the first good meal for months that evening Molly was unaware that, in the cold kitchen of the house on the hill Havelock Vetinari was being beaten with a birch rod for stealing from his father. But even as the rod cracked down across his slim shoulders for the last time the cunning young assassin smiled to himself.

It was known as the Beggar's War and it cut through Ankh-Morpok like a knife through the Ankh. The street population of the Disc's greatest city took sides with only minimal deliberation. In the blistering summer heat the city was a bubbling cauldron on the verge of violent explosion.

For three years Molly Bright, know known as Queen Molly, had ruled the Beggar's Guild with a firm but fair and filthy hand. But she had been challenged. A young beggar who called himself Blind Harry1 had set up a campaign to have himself inaugurated as guild leader.

Harry believed that the art of begging was closer to that of street theatre. Beggars had to be recognisable figures he said and the more interesting they were the more they were likely to get. To this end he was in favour of somewhat enhancing any slight disfigurement, or asset as you might call it, that a beggar happened to have. He himself wore an eye-patch and walked with an exaggerated limp. He would also play the penny whistle to attract custom.

Several of the younger beggars backed Harry up on this and so two factions had begun to form. One around Harry and the other around Molly and her more traditional ways.

Molly was widely believed to be slightly potty, however this was not true, she had simply learned how to be unsettling. She would mumble to herself and at some point had gotten an infection in her eye which had given her a slightly lopsided and worrying stare; especially as that eye hardly ever blinked while the other did so almost constantly as if to make up for it. Despite all this she had immediately recognised Havelock Vetinari when he had succeeded to the position of Patrician. And because Molly had been brought up to be a humble girl she felt slightly indebted to him.

However it was more than she could hope for that her would intercede for her in this power battle. There was to be a Guild meeting for the purposes of taking a vote on who was to be leader of the Beggar's and Molly was not looking forward to it. Harry was popular and she had a funny feeling in her stomach that she would have to hand over her velvet cloak of office.

The main hall of the Beggar's Guild smelled more than a little when it was full of all its respective members. Harry and his mates sat at one end of the stage while Molly perched on her junk throne in the centre. She was going to have to start this meeting sooner or later. She stood and held up her hands.

"Shurrup you lot!" she hollered at the top of her voice and the room quietened. "We're gonna 'ave a vote right!"

There was a general chorus of agreement.

"Fine then. When Bloody Old Tom," here she indicated the guild secretary to her right, "calls out the candidate names you gotta put yer 'and up right? You can't put yer 'and up twice. Put 'em up an' Tom 'ere 'll count 'em, alright? Good. Tom."

Bloody Old Tom shuffled to the front of the stage and cast around gloomily. He cleared his throat carefully before calling out.

"Blind Harry. All those in favour?"

A thick forest of hands rose into the air and Molly felt her heart sink. Tom counted carefully before shouting out the result.

"One hundred and seventy. And now, Queen Molly. All those in…. good afternoon your lordship."

Molly looked up from where she had been sitting with her head in her hands. All heads had turned towards the back of the Guild Hall where the Patrician and his clerk Drunknott had silently appeared. _He's too late,_ thought Molly. _He's too bloody late._

A hush had fallen over the hall and Vetinari smiled amiably.

"Please don't let me disturb you ladies and gentlemen. I merely wished to have a word with her highness, however I can wait until you are finished here."

A soft mumbling replaced the silence of the room. Tom turned to Molly with a questioning glance and she nodded that he should continue.

"Um, yes. Queen Molly then. All in favour?"

The hands rose.

"That looks to be about, just over two hundred your highness," declare Bloody Old Tom a minute later. At the other end of the hall Blind Harry jumped to his feet with indignation.

"Some of them had their hands up before. You can't allow that!"

"Dear me."

All heads turned towards the Patrician once more. Someone had found him a chair in which he reclined with his fingers steepled before his lips. He was still smiling sweetly.

"Am I to understand that Mr Harry believes her highness had been cheating?"

It was a soft voice that seemed to fill the hall. Completely innocent; like a small dog with huge sad eyes you later discover has extremely large teeth and a nasty temper.

"Um… well maybe."

"In that case I suggest that we take the vote again don't you Mr Harry.

It was not a question. Harry nodded dumbly.

"Good. Your highness?"

Molly nodded her assent and gestured to Bloody Old Tom.

"Very well then. Blind Harry. All those in favour?"

There was complete stillness in the hall.

"And Queen Molly. All those in favour?"

As every hand in the room rose Molly saw the Patrician rise and give her a courteous bow before slipping silently away. Molly smiled.

Eventually she'd get tired of owing Vetinari things but surely standing up to a few inbred Lords who hated her anyway was worth it for the look on Blind Harry's face as the Guild Hall broke into general applause for her.

1Although he was not actually blind. He did, however suffer from being ginger and freckled. There are some curses that are simply universal.


	5. Dixie Voom

Chapter 4: Dixie Voom's Story

Constance Allslop had been born the daughter of a fish-monger who resided down Cockbill Street. But even as a young girl it was obvious that she was made for better things than fish guts could offer. She had one of those bodies that make men of all ages turn around in the street to watch her go past. Her family thought she might join the Seamstresses Guild but Constance scoffed at the idea.

Seamstressing was nothing. She didn't want to sell her body for a few pence a day. So she set upon an idea. If she wouldn't sell herself then she could at least showcase herself. Exotic dancing was one of those trades which suffered in Ankh-Morpok because it did not have a guild of its own. As such, those involved in it did not have the benefits or securities that Guild life offered. But this was the profession that Constance chose for herself.

She changed her name to the snappier sounding Dixie Voom and got a job dancing a joint called the Alley Cat in the Shades. It wasn't a great job but it paid and she didn't have to snuggle up to the really gross punters if she didn't want to. But that wasn't enough for a lot of the girls she worked with.

The day Jolly Bon-bon handed in her notice and announced she was becoming a seamstress it was like a door had suddenly been opened and the other girls soon followed. Within a month the only Alley Cat girls left were Dixie, Baby and Lola1. That was when Dixie had the idea.

She hid in the shadows on one side of Cockbill Street and waited. It was half-past ten so anytime soon… ah. Here was what she was waiting for.

"Evenin' Mildred," she cheered happily, slipping out if the shadows and putting her arm through that of the other girl.

You wouldn't know it to look at them but Mildred Easy and Dixie were the same age. They had grown up together but Mildred was nowhere near as glamorous as her childhood friend. She was trudging along the street in a thick overcoat and sensible shoes. She jumped when Dixie appeared but smiled when she recognised her, falling into step with her.

"Oh, hello Constance," said Mildred. Dixie didn't correct her; to the people of Cockbill Street she would always be Constance.

"How's your mam these days?"

"She's alright. How about you?"

"Oh not bad, you know how things are. You still workin' up at the Palace?"

Dixie's voice was casual but she could barely contain a whoop of delight when Mildred nodded cheerfully.

"Yes. It's a good job," she broke off and looked at her friend with pity and worry. "Constance you don't need a job do you?"

Dixie laughed and shook her head.

"No you silly thing, I don't need a job. What I do need though is a meeting with your boss."

They had stopped in the middle of the street and Mildred looked up at the taller girl in mild confusion."

"You want to see the housekeeper?"

"No Mildred," Dixie kept her patience, "I need to see the Patrician."

Mildred went a little pale and laughed nervously.

"Well, I can't get you an appointment with him. The Patrician doesn't take appointments from the girl who dusts the lower west passage."

"No but you know his clerk Mr Drumknott don't you?" her voice was persuasive.

"Yes."

"Well I'm sure that if you had a quiet word with him, and explained that a very dear old friend of yours wanted to see the Patrician desperately on a political matter of life or death, that he would be able to wangle a few minutes for me, don't you?"

Mildred seemed to think about this for a while.

"Mr Drumknott is a very nice man," she murmured softly.

"There you are then," Dixie was triumphant. "Have a word with him, please Milly. I'll love you forever and ever if you do."

Mildred nodded slowly and Dixie hugged her. She watched as Mildred sloped off towards her little house near the end of the street. Poor old Milly, she was always such a soft touch.

Dixie had everything carefully planned and when she was shown into the Oblong Office she exuded an air of quiet confidence.

"Please sit down Miss Allslop," he said without looking up and Dixie cursed that she had used Mildred as a messenger.

"Actually it's Miss Voom sir," she said clearly. "Miss Dixie Voom."

This time he looked up and raised one thin black eyebrow at her.

"Indeed? I understood it from Miss Easy that I was to talk to her friend, a Miss Constance Allslop."

"Yes sir, but I prefer Dixie Voom. It is my professional name."

The eyebrow went higher, if that were possible.

"And what profession would that be Miss Al… Miss Voom?"

Dixie took a deep breath.

"Exotic dancer sir."

She had expected some kind of reaction from that but there was none, he simply nodded and, leaning back in his chair, steepled his long fingers beneath his chin.

"I see. And what is you wish to speak to me about?"

"Well sir, the problem is that being an exotic dancer isn't quite the safest of professions, or the best paid. Some of the girls have had to change jobs…"

"Yes," he cut in and tapped one of the many sheets of paper which covered his desk like some mad, white and cream patchwork. "I have a report here from Mrs Palm of the Seamstresses Guild saying that an increasing number of her new members are refugees of your trade."

So he did know who she was, the pretence annoyed her so she shifted position in her chair, leaning forward slightly, showing off her low-cut dress.

"Exactly sir. Of course not all of us wish to take on that particular profession. So we were wondering if it would be possible to form a guild of our own."

"A Guild of Exotic Dancers?"

"Yes sir."

There was silence for a long time while the Patrician seemed to consider this. He stared at her quite blankly for several minutes until Dixie began to feel rather uncomfortable. Eventually he blinked slowly and turned back to the papers on his desk.

"I don't think so Miss Voom. I rather think it would be simpler to ask Mrs Palm to create a sub-section of her Guild. She is a very accommodating woman, I am sure you will find the arrangement quite sufficient."

Dixie stood and thumped on the desk with her fist in her anger.

"It is not sufficient!" she shouted and hastily removed her fist when he glanced at her hand. "Sir," she added. "I'm afraid it's our own Guild or nothing."

"Then I'm afraid you will get nothing Miss Voom."

Dixie cast around the room in despair, when her eyes lit on something in the corner and she smiled. She smiled sweetly down at him.

"Do you play chess at all sir?" she asked.

Vetinari looked up at her oddly for a moment before he nodded.

"Yes, why?"

"Do you have time for a game just now?"

He raised his eyebrow again but she simpered slightly. He looked at a small piece of paper in front of him before rising.

"I suppose I have a little time Miss Voom."

She clapped her hands happily. "Wonderful. Do you ever bet on the outcome of a game at all?"

"One does not usually bet on chess Miss Voom."

She nodded. "True, however I feel a small stake is in order this afternoon."

"No doubt you are about to suggest that if you win I must create your guild?"

"Exactly."

"And what if you lose Miss Voom?"

Dixie had thought about this since she had come upon the plan. She waggled her hips suggestively and smiled gently at him.

"I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement my lord."

"Hm," was all he said before sitting down at the chess table.

Dixie was good at chess. Her father had learned from a wizard he knew as a boy and he had taught his daughter all the rules and how to break them without your opponent noticing2. However cheating against the Patrician was difficult.

He did not point out that she was cheating and he did not cheat himself but he simply seemed to easily counter all of her most devious moves. Dixie had to start using her brain in ways she had never thought actually existed. But eventually she was able to position her bishop just right.

"Check-mate!" she practically shouted.

Vetinari considered the board very carefully before nodding.

"Well done Miss Voom, a most interesting game if I may say. Drumknott."

The last was said a little louder and his lordship's clerk appeared in the doorway carrying a little brown folder.

"The papers you requested sir," he said, handing it to Vetinari.

The Patrician opened the folder and looked over the papers before handing them to Dixie.

"Your guild papers Miss Voom."

She stared at him in surprise.

"But you said I couldn't…"

"Indeed I did, but then you won a most excellent game of chess and so you get your wish."

Dixie thought over the game in her mind. How well he had played but how easily she had managed to slip her bishop up to the king. His mind had seemed to be elsewhere on the board and she'd just assumed…

"You fixed it," she said.

"I?"

"You let me win."

"Perhaps," he said.

"What would you have done if I hadn't suggested the game?"

"Oh, you would have come up with something else Miss Voom, you are a very resourceful young lady."

"You were going to let us have the Guild all along!"

He smiled thinly.

"Not at all. I am not in the habit of giving things to those who do not deserve them. I wanted to see how far you would press the matter."

Dixie looked down at the Guild papers carefully. They were made out in her name; Dixie Voom. He'd known all along, the cunning …

Dixie laughed.

"I do hope your new Guild does well Miss Voom," said Vetinari, rising and returning to his desk. "I look forward to your opening ceremony. It should be quite an evening."

"You want to come?" she spluttered.

"As the leader of the city I am expected to attend all new Guild opening ceremonies."

Dixie thought about that. She thought about Mrs Palm and the Seamstresses; now that must have been an interesting evening.

"There'll be an invitation in the post sir," she said cheerfully and she left the Oblong Office.

1 Because there is always a club entertainer called Lola, it's one of the odder laws of the universe. The same practically goes for Baby; one or other of them is also usually a man, also according to the law of the universe.

2 It is actually very difficult to cheat at chess, nearly impossible in fact but we did say her father learnt from a wizard and those bastards can cheat at anything.


	6. Epilogue

Epilogue: Gentleman

"You may go in now ladies," said Drumknott as he held open the door of the Oblong Office for the four women in the waiting room. They stood almost at the same time and filed in through the door with only a small amount of glaring1.

The Patrician was seated behind his desk, waiting for them which was unusual. Normally he studiously ignored his visitors and they had all been on the receiving end of a Vetinari silence before but this was a different situation. As they entered the room he rose and gave them a stately bow.

"Ladies," he said, "I wish to thank you. It seems that whenever I am in trouble you come to my aid. No doubt there are times when you feel I do not entirely deserve it, however I wish you to know that it gives me great pleasure in knowing that I have such excellent allies."

All four women, even Mrs Manger had gone pink at the praise. He could be most charming when he wanted to be. He walked out from behind his desk and stood in front of the row of women.

"Unfortunately, as you know I am unable to express my thanks any other way than verbally but I hope that that may still have some little value with you."

They nodded. He moved to stand before Dixie Voom and held out his hand.

"Miss Voom it is, as always, a pleasure," he said silkily as he took her hand and bent low to kiss it gently. Dixie blushed an even deeper shade of pink and curtsied him before leaving the room.

"Mrs Manger, so good to see you again."

"And you sir," she mumbled as he performed the same motion over her beefy mit. She bustled off through the door, her mind already on the new boiling kettles they were importing.

"Your Highness."

Molly gave a wild giggle and slapped him on the shoulder.

"Never out of trouble are you?" she cackled at him, he smiled in return and she tottered outside. That just left Mrs Palm.

"You know one day you'll run into something that can't be stopped by four women," she told him ruefully.

"Ah but that storm is a while off as yet," he answered gently. "And I have no doubt that even when it arises you shall still be, my very dear, Mrs Palm."

His cool lips grazed the back of her hand and she blushed quite as much as Dixie had.

"Charmer," she scolded him before she sailed regally out of the room.

When Drumknott re-entered the office a few moments later the Patrician was standing by the window, watching the four figures disperse into the streets of his city.

"Dear ladies," he murmured to himself.

"I wonder sir if you can rely on bought loyalty forever?" said the clerk bravely.

Vetinari turned to him and smiled thinly.

"But I did not buy them Drumknott," he replied. "You will tend to find that women have a much better understanding of such a relationship. I ask nothing of them and they expect nothing of me and yet they will fly to my aid at the merest sign of trouble."

"I believe that's called sentimentality sir, or the maternal instinct."

Vetinari raised an eyebrow at his clerk.

"And what better kind of loyalty is there Drunknott, than one which exists simply for loyalties sake?"

"Yes sir," said the clerk as the Patrician seated himself at his desk once more and began to read a report on grain tax.

1 This will happen anywhere you get a group of high-powered women together, they fight silently over precedence.


End file.
